bar between them. She felt convinced of this, yet she hoped against her conviction;—saddest logic!
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He had not entirely recovered his strength: his cheeks were still thin and pale. She knew it was only the golden rose of the setting sun which flushed his face, as he sat near the bulwark, gazing on the last sunset of their voyage. She might justly claim her right of care a little longer; he had no friends near Liverpool. He must remain at her sister’s house until his health was quite restored. She was too blind to see that she had no right to take him to her sister’s home. It was the only means she possessed of retaining him near her.
“The captain tells me we shall be at Liverpool early to-morrow,” said she, addressing him timidly. Then the set words, thought of so long before, escaped her at the moment; she could only add abruptly,
“You have forgiven me, Markham?”
At her last words he turned from the sunset, and looked earnestly in her face.
“I have forgiven you,” he said, compassionately. “I fear your greatest effort will be to forgive yourself.”
“I shall never be able to do that.”
“I am bound in deep gratitude to you, Pauline, for your devoted care—”
“Not bound to me; you have saved my life!”
“Aye; that was but a chance—quick, thoughtless work. I should have acted in the same way had any one else been in your place.”
“But your noble forgiveness—”
He did not appear to heed her words. “You must let me say, Pauline, that I am bound to you in gratitude, and I would do all I could to help you in this sorrow; but I know we can only forgive ourselves when God, in his mercy, allows us the opportunity of repairing the past.”
“Markham, I am very rich; set me to any task of doing good.”
“I shall only demand one act from you. You will tell your sister.”
She was utterly cast down. She had feared he would demand this of her. She could bear for him to know her guilt, but for another to know it—why, the knowledge in his mind that another utterly despised her would inevitably lower her still further in his estimation.
“I ask an act of justice, Pauline.”
She was silent.
“An act of justice! Let her know that I was true. It will be my only consolation.”
In broken words she prayed him to spare her.
“I am resolved, Pauline,—if you are silent, I shall speak myself.”
She knew the strength of his word.
Then a sense of utter desolation came upon her,—she, who had been so careless of all affection, caring only for worldly prosperity—well, that was attained, but she was miserable—there were only two beings on earth she loved—his love, could